Why Your Favorite Shows and Movies Make BAD Games

 
I celebrate the fact that there are games like StarWars: KoTR, Walking Dead, and Batman:Arkham (Asylum or City). They are fantastic fun and provide truly memorable experiences.  Sadly, they are among the shockingly few, when compared to the avalanche of franchise tie-in games that have been promoted over the years.  You are more likely to find a lost big-winning scratch ticket on the ground than to pick up a good movie-licensed title. 

 I've been burned so often that I would more happily spend my money on a book spin-off, potato chip promotion, board game, or character-flavored soda than expect to buy a good video game based on a favorite TV show.  Honestly, getting one of these video games is like receiving a broken toy.  It fills you with regret, knowing the potential of what it could have been . . . what it should have been. I often spend as much time railing against the game—and imagining how it could be fixed—as I do playing it.

I thought this phenomenon was unique to video games, but it turns out I was wrong. A couple of years ago, I was running a Serenity role playing game (based on the much beloved sci-fi TV show Firefly).  The group excitedly created their characters, learned the mechanics, grabbed their dice, and put their all into the game.  Both the group and I gradually became very frustrated with the experience.  As I began to analyze why this was, and to recognize that its shortcomings (outside of my own GM'ing) were systemic, I was sad to realize that the core of the problem was that it might just be a bad game underneath it all.  I was encountering factors surprisingly similar to those that lead to an underwhelming video game experience.

Let's step back for a second and view an oversimplified summary of the development process of video games.  They can take a long time to develop.  Some of your favorite ones may have been in development for two to five years, or even longer.  Licensed titles, by contrast, have a much shorter timeline.  In most cases, a developer’s window to create a game extends just from the time the ink dries on the contract to when the movie launches in theaters.  The resulting deadline could be as little as six months away—a year and a half at most.  This can put a huge damper on how ambitious a project dares to be, or can force a decision to sacrifice quality in order to make delivery on time.  But this is only one of the most obvious problems.  There is also the problem of the source material itself.

 
I remember one year in which I played two Die Hard games, published simultaneously on different platforms.  On paper, Die Hard looks like a great idea: chock-full of cinematically inspired action, it takes place in a known world with familiar characters, best of which is a gun-toting, quip-spouting hero that you get to play! 

Each of the Die Hard games was distinctly different.  One was a true floor-for-floor representation of the movie and plot, with some extra scenes thrown in.  The other game was more loosely tied to the movie and presented new environments, different gameplay experiences, and divergent story elements.   But the effect both games had on me was surprisingly similar: I felt the joy of anticipation, leading to management of my expectations, then a sense of deflating realization, and finally a heaviness of heart.  Surprisingly, this had little to do with the execution of either game.  Something was nagging at the back of my brain.  The problem was invisible and intangible, but most definitely dampened my enjoyment.  

Imagine going back to a book, movie, or game that you have already experienced.   No doubt you will still enjoy it thoroughly. You might even discover new details or come to new realizations.  But you won't be surprised again.  That thrill of the journey is no longer there. The book you can't put down, the game you can't stop playing, the TV series that makes you consume every episode available without regard for responsible use of your time—these all come down to an overwhelming desire to answer the question “What happens next?”  When returning to them, suddenly it all doesn’t seem so urgent: that drive is gone.

Familiarity is also the enemy here. Think about characters that you already know so well.   For this example, I'll choose Batman.  I know Batman.  I know his past . . . I know his future.  There are a million stories yet to tell, but I know what drives him and what his credos are.  Because of this, he is limited as a character in a game where you'd expect development or change over time.  In contrast, having an unknown character or a character of my own creation is unlimited.  The borders for what this character will or will not do are not yet set.  Batman is static.  An unknown character can surprise me.
 

Now you can start to see why some characters are intrinsically more fulfilling to play.  Let's return to our group playing the Serenity RPG.  

One person chooses the character of Wash.  Wash is a phenomenal pilot who is witty and deeply pacifistic. But he’s not so useful for activities that don't require flying or delivering a sarcastic truism.  Nor can Wash contribute much when it comes to bullets and brawling.   

Expect a lot of downtime for this player.  

We can see this limitation extend to the video game of an established character, as well.  It would be hard to imagine playing Wolverine and not being able to heal or use my claws.  I would be unsatisfied by being less powerful than the character I’ve already come to know.  Yet I would also be disappointed if the game suddenly had Wolverine able to move objects with his mind or shoot rays from his eyes.  That's just not part of his DNA.  As such, leveling the character of Wolverine becomes a process of growing into his known potential—of gaining his full powers, of getting his stuff back.  There’s a limit to how exciting that can be.

I'm not offering a solution here.  (At least not in this article.)  For now, I just want to point out that good licensed games are hard to create for a variety of reasons, but at their core they are often challenged by the license itself.  

Both SW: KoTR and Walking Dead manage to avoid these traps by using protagonists that are new characters in the world or universe of the license.

And Batman? Well . . . he's Batman!